The Breakup Support Group

“Sounds good,” I say, forcing myself to look away before I get lost in his eyes. I grab his wrist and slide up his sleeve to peer at his watch. “Blah,” I say with a frown.

He frowns and checks the time. It’s eleven-fifteen. Feeling emboldened after embracing the fakeness of the night, I slide a finger along his jaw, tilting his head toward me. “Maybe next time?” I ask.

His fingers wrap around my wrist, holding my hand in place on his cheek. His other arm slides around my back, and I’m pulled into him, our bodies pressing together from chest to thighs. A warm tingle spreads through my stomach, and my teeth dig into my bottom lip on instinct. “Absolutely,” he whispers, his lips so freaking close to mine I think I might burst. He smells like raspberry blue punch, and I need need need to know if he tastes like it, too.

Our bodies vibrate. It takes me a second to hop off my cloud of lustful thoughts and realize that my phone is going crazy in my dress’s hidden pocket. I exhale. “Sorry,” I say, sliding my hand into my pocket to shut it off.

“Better not be another guy,” Emory says with a playful smile.

“Never,” I say, trying like hell to bring back that pull of desire that had vaporized between us when my phone went off. It goes off again, the vibrations somehow seeming angrier this time.

Emory’s brows narrow. “Maybe you should answer that.”

With a sigh, I pull the phone from my pocket. Dad’s calling. I hold up a finger to Emory, not minding that I need to step aside to answer the call. Seeing my dad’s smiling face on my home screen is the biggest buzzkill ever.

I answer the call and slink into a far corner of the room, as far away from the noise as possible. “Hello?”

“Honey, don’t panic,” Dad says.

“What the hell does that mean?” A thousand horrible things fly through my mind in the second it takes him to answer.

“Mom had an accident in the kitchen, cut herself pretty bad. She’s fine, but we just left the emergency room at Regional, and they put her on so many drugs she is kind of uh, begging for you.”

“What? She’s okay, though?”

“She is, and they got her finger stitched back together, but she’s a mess, Isla. I didn’t want to call you, but I think I’m losing the battle of trying to take her mind off you. The doctors said it’ll be hours until the drugs are out of her system, and she needs to rest and stay calm. Her head is all messed up, and she’s acting like you’re still a baby, and she needs to see you.”

“I’ll be right there,” I say, smiling despite the tragic circumstances. When I turn around, Emory is standing right there, and I jump.

“Sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “You looked kind of freaked out so I rushed over here. What’s going on?”

“My mom went to the ER. She cut her hand and needs me. I’m sorry,” I say, looking around the crowd of people. “Maybe I can get a teacher to take me home so your night isn’t ruined.”

“Isla, I’m taking you to see her.” He grabs my hand, his expression serious. “Do you want to say bye to Ciara first?”

I shake my head. She’s on the dance floor, and I’ll just text her on the ride over there. “Thank you, Emory.”

“Of course,” he says, taking my hand.

On the drive home, I tell Emory everything my dad had said during our short conversation. For a while, it feels like the walls are down and that Date Night Emory has slipped back into normal Emory. And then he pulls into my driveway and puts a hand over mine.

Normal Emory doesn’t do that.

“I had a great time with you Isla,” he says.

I swallow and struggle for a reply, but he opens his car door before I’ve said anything. I scramble out too, suddenly wondering why he thinks it’s necessary to leave his vehicle. “I had a good time, too,” I say, rushing over to his side of the car. “Guess I should go check on my mom now.”

“Relax,” he says, rubbing a finger over his eyebrow. He taps the hood of his car, where the engine is still running. “I’m just walking you to the door. Can you blame a guy for wanting to spend every second possible with you?”

I scoff and focus on the cracks in the driveway. “Do girls actually fall for that crap?”

He stops in front of my front door and gazes down at me. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t exactly tried it on anyone but you.”

I’m about to call his bullshit for what it is, but this isn’t a real guy standing in front of me, his gaze all but smoldering my dress off. I play along, batting my eyelashes and trying to imagine a world where a real date actually goes like this. If all dates went this well, I’d have no problem putting myself back out there.

“Thank you for tonight,” I say. My hand reaches out on its own accord, touching the blue tie in front of me.

Emory takes a step closer, the toes of his shiny dress shoes touching my ballet flats. “Can I call you tomorrow?”